


The End of Days

by Persian Slipper (Luthe)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherly Love, Childhood, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-14
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:44:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthe/pseuds/Persian%20Slipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock keeps only one photograph from his childhood in his bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of Days

_Sentiment._ Sherlock had told The Woman that it was a weakness, that he didn't indulge in it. Indulge no, but even he was prey to it. The photograph he kept in his bedroom was proof of that.

It wasn't that Sherlock hated Mycroft. He resented his brother, yes, and hated his constant meddling and the fact that he was ever-so-slightly smarter, but Sherlock didn't hate Mycroft. There were old wounds and old words between them, rifts so deep they might never heal, but Sherlock could remember a time when Mycroft was the smartest person in the whole world, the big brother who kept him safe and taught him everything. Then Mycroft left for Eton and nothing was ever the same.

The photograph was from the summer before Mycroft left for school. They were sitting on the lawn, Mycroft leaning his back against a tree. Sherlock was on his lap, all chubby cheeks and dark curls, a stark contrast against Mycroft's ginger hair and white polo shirt. Mycroft was holding a copy of The Once and Future King open in front of them, reading aloud to Sherlock. Sherlock could have easily read it himself, but it was more fun to let Mycroft read it to him, especially because Mycroft would change his voice to be Merlin or Arthur or Morgana La Fey. The golden sunshine of a summer afternoon enveloped them and the leaves of the tree dappled them in soft shadows.

It had been the waning days of an idyllic age, even if Sherlock hadn't known it at the time. The blithe, blissful happiness of his childhood was soon to end, but at that one moment Sherlock had been as secure, content, and happy as he would ever be. It was a memory Sherlock would never delete, kept deep in the safe at the center of his mind palace. The photograph was merely a reminder, a shortcut to that single perfect moment. 

Mycroft kept the same photograph in his private study.


End file.
